


In the After

by notquitepunkrock



Series: post-war potter [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ((future deamus)), (it becomes a thing eventually but idk how long eventually is), (its not explicitly stated yet but that's coming i promise), (why are there so many incest tags I hate this website), Adoption, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Aromantic Charlie Weasley, Asexual Charlie Weasley, Beards (Relationships), Birth, Birthday, Cute Kids, Dissociation, Doting Dad!Blaise, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Gen, I cannot stress how much angst tbh, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Non-Chronological, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Paranoia, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sibling Fluff, Sisters, all of the angst that ever existed, anyway, because fuck that noise, past deamus, this series is rife with pain why doesn't anyone seem to get that, unrequited pavender
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-11-03 10:28:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10965372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquitepunkrock/pseuds/notquitepunkrock
Summary: Recovery is perhaps the hardest part of the war.A series of one shots about the aftermath of the Second Wizarding War and what it takes to get better.





	1. Ron Weasley

**Author's Note:**

> this is a mess and every time I write the words "after the war" I have to restrain myself from adding "I went back to New York" so that should tell you what kind of person I am.

**Ron Weasley (July 13, 1998)**

 

Ron woke, like most nights, in a cold sweat, screams echoing in his ears. He stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat and unsteady breathing. If Harry or Hermione happened to hear, they would wake up, and there was nothing they needed less than another sleepless night.

Finally, he managed to calm down, but sleep still seemed to evade him. With a small sigh, he slipped out from between his bright orange sheets and carefully crept across the room. At the door, he paused to look over Hermione, sprawled on the floor in a sweat-soaked pile of blankets, and Harry, curled in a tight ball on his cot. They were okay. Ron felt his breathing come ever-so-slightly easier.

Carefully slipping out the creaky door was easy, something he had mastered at an excessively young age when he was still scared of the dark and the ghoul above his room.  _ I’m just going to get a glass of water, then I’ll go back to bed, _ he told himself, fully aware that it was a lie. Still, he managed to convince himself that the sight of the constantly crackling fire in his mother’s kitchen and the clock with all hands pointing to ‘Home’ would be enough to make sleep come easy.

With a well-practiced ease, Ron crept down the stairs, skipping the especially creaky steps and floorboards out of habit. On each landing, he paused, listening for the sounds of his siblings’ breathing behind their bedroom doors. Percy and George in one room, Bill and Fleur in another, Ginny and Charlie in the last. They would all go back to their own beds before dawn, he knew, but for the moment, no one could bear to sleep alone after…well, after.

The two months following the battle had been hard for everyone, but especially George and Harry. Ron supposed having your twin die, or dying yourself, tended to do that to someone. He’d been managing okay himself, he supposed, putting on a happy face for the others and acting like everything was as fine as it could be, but at night… he was just as broken as everyone else. He couldn’t seem to get the blood covered red hair of Fred, the limp bodies of Tonks and Lupin, or the blood gushing out of Lavender’s throat out of his mind. 

Why was he okay, when they weren’t?

Ron finally reached the kitchen, padding across the cold tiled floor to the sink and getting a glass jar out of the cupboard. Memories of waiting as Fred pulled the same jar out of the cupboard for a much shorter Ron flooded his mind. He nearly dropped the glass.

_ Fred’s dead _ , he scolded himself.  _ There’s no use wishing it was different. _

And yet… here he was, with an aching hole in his heart the size of his older brother.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” 

The voice made Ron jump, whipping around to find the source. Charlie stood at the bottom the staircase, looking pale and small in the dim light. Ron couldn’t remember a time when his brother had ever looked small.

“Harry snores,” he lied, taking a sip of his water.

Charlie chuckled, crossing the room and leaning against the counter beside Ron. “Ginny does too, if you can believe it,” he replied, though something in his voice said he knew Ron was lying. “Forgot she did, but wow, that girl is louder than Dad.”

Ron stifled a snort. Their father had a habit of snoring so loudly he woke himself up at times. It was a wonder how their mother ever got any sleep.

There was a comfortable pause where Charlie busied himself with starting a pot of tea, seemingly just so he’d have something to do with his hands. He’d never been overly fond of tea, that Ron remembered, always favoring coffee after taking a trip with Tonks’ family one summer to America. Picking up their tradition of several large cups of coffee every morning had been one of their mother’s peeves, a habit he happened to share with Tonks.

The thought of the dead woman made Ron shudder, and he put down his water to bury his head in his hands. 

Hermione had once said that he had the emotional range of a teaspoon, but that couldn’t be true, not anymore. The overwhelming sense of guilt and fear and outrage and pain and sadness filling his lungs all at once was enough to make anyone scream. He understood Cho Chang now more than ever.

Charlie pulled Ron’s hands away from his face and pressed a warm, chipped mug into his hands. “This will help,” he said with certainty, a small smile on his face.

“Thanks,” Ron replied awkwardly, clearing his throat when the word came out choked and scratchy.

Charlie frowned. “Okay,” he said firmly, grabbing Ron by the elbow and pulling him over to the rug in front of the fireplace that had been the home of many scary stories told on rainy evenings. “You’re hurting. Talk to me.”

Ron winced. He’d forgotten how blunt his brother could be, a habit he wished he could guess had been picked up from spending too much time around dragons, but was probably inherited from their mother. She could pick up on anything and wasn’t afraid of saying even the harshest thing.

“I’m fine, Charlie,” he said firmly, taking a sip of the tea. A feeling of warmth filled his stomach, the familiar sensation of a calming drought. Clearly, Charlie was concerned.

“No one expects you to be fine, you know,” his brother replied, eyebrows raised. “In fact, if you were, I think it’d be a bit concerning, given what you’ve gone through.”

“Well, I am,” Ron said, even though he knew that stubbornness never worked on Charlie. Nothing ever got past Charlie.

“You’re not. And you haven’t had a chance to talk about it. So talk.”

“Why do you even care?” Ron asked grumpily, setting down his mug so that he could cross his arms indignantly over his chest. “You’ve been off in Romania for ages, I’ve barely even seen you since you graduated.”

Something akin to hurt flickered across Charlie’s face before it was replaced with that same insufferable expression of concern. “I’m here now,” he pointed out. “And I care because I’m your brother. It’s my job to keep you safe, even if it’s from yourself.”

That hit too close to home. How could Charlie know about how much Ron was tearing himself apart inside?

“No one kept Fred safe,” he said instead, playing with the hem of his t-shirt. He blinked back the tears that threatened to fall out of his eyes. Ron didn’t cry. It was a side effect of growing up with five tough-as-nails brothers and an equally strong sister.

Charlie’s eyes softened even more, adopting an expression usually only reserved for his dragons and the occasional quidditch poster. “Ron, you didn’t kill Fred,” he said with the tone of someone who had said the words multiple times. 

“I know that,” Ron said, annoyed. “But-“

“No buts,” Charlie said firmly, setting him with a glare that was still oddly gentle. “Not allowed. You didn’t do anything wrong, Ron. You fought to stop Voldemort and save our society. Fred’s death had nothing to do with you. You weren’t even  _ there _ . You stood by Harry’s side more than anyone.”

Ron couldn’t keep it in any longer. “I left him and Hermione,” he admitted, eyes locked firmly on a particularly worn spot in the rug. Until now, this particular bit of information was kept between the trio and Bill and Fleur, an unspoken decision to never speak of the mistake. “I left them when they needed me most. And I didn’t save anything.”

A shuddering breath escaped his throat, and he swallowed hard against it. “I stood around as people got killed, and did  _ nothing _ . I couldn’t even save my own brother.”

“Merlin, Ron, if that’s your logic, then we’re all horrible people,” Charlie argued. “No one could save everybody. Not even Harry Potter.  _ Drink _ .” 

The final word was added as Ron started shaking uncontrollably, tears slipping down his cheeks for the first time in years. The mug was thrust into his hands and Charlie forcibly lifted it to his lips, holding it there until he’d taken a few long sips and started to calm down again. Then they stared at each other, the heaviness of the moment weighing down on both their shoulders.

“I still hear the screams,” Ron said finally, biting on his lower lip. “I still  _ feel it _ , you know?”

Charlie sighed, setting down his mug and sliding closer to his younger brother. “I know, Ronnie,” he said, earning a small nudge in the side from the ancient and incredibly embarrassing nickname. “I understand, but you can’t keep acting like it doesn’t bother you.”

“Why not?” Ron asked, feeling strangely like a small child. “Someone’s gotta be the strong one.”

“Not necessarily. D’ya think that Harry isn’t affected? Or Dad and Mum? Or Percy, or Ginny, or Bill, or even me? We’re all hurting, Ron. The only difference is we let ourselves confide in someone. We let ourselves cry.”

That was something Ron hadn’t thought of before. He had been trying to be strong for Harry and Hermione and his sister, especially, letting everyone cry to him. He had assumed that people like his brothers, except maybe with the exception of George, were pillars in their own right. But now that he thought about it…

“Who do you talk to?” Ron asked quietly, his voice so small he almost doubted Charlie could hear him. 

Charlie chuckled. “Dad’s a good listener,” he replied easily, as though he wasn’t admitting to breakdowns and nightmares that Ron was just realizing they shared. “Bill too, think he gets it from dealing with me his entire life. I was a whiny, talkative, little monster.”

“You? Whiny?” Ron scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

“No, really, I was worse than  _ you _ ,” he teased. 

Ron laughed, taking a long sip of his tea. He sobered after a moment, thinking hard. Who could he talk to? There wasn’t anyone he wanted to bother with this, not when Bill had Fleur, the girls alternated between angry and in tears, George, Percy, and Harry had too much on their plates already, and his parents were just trying to keep it together in front of the family. (Though Mum did burst into tears at random, particularly when she caught a glimpse of George without Fred by his side or was reminded of how close she came to losing Ginny.)

“Can you be my person?” he asked slowly, looking up at the brother he’d idolized with a just-barely-hopeful face.

Charlie grinned. “’Course you can, little brother,” he replied gently. “Anytime you need me, all you need to do is ask. Even if I’m in Romania.”

That feeling of being small came back. “You won’t think I’m bothering you?” 

His brother scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You could never bother me, I promise,” he said decisively. “I’m only a letter away.” 

The two brothers fell into an easy conversation after that, carefully avoiding any talk of war or night terrors. In the morning, Molly found them curled up together in front of the still-crackling fire, discarded mugs by their sides. She took a sneaky picture and left them be, letting the smell of cooking bacon and the sound of footsteps running down the stairs wake them a few hours later.


	2. Harry Potter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this one a lot you guys. Like I'm legit proud of how it turned out. And it's out in a timely manner? Who am I anymore?

**Harry Potter (September 1st, 2000)**

 

Harry stared at the plainly painted door in front of him, clenching his fists at his side. He didn’t want to do this. As Hermione and Ginny had reminded him several times, he didn’t have to do this. He could practically picture them now, Hermione’s knuckles white on the steering wheel and Ginny perched on the edge of her seat, ready to leap out of the car parked on the street and come to his aid. Ron, on the other hand, would have his hand casually perched on the door handle, fully prepared to jump out as well.

The thought made him smile ever so slightly and steel his nerves long enough to lift his fist and knock.

The door swung open only a few short moments later, just enough time that Harry considered walking away, before remembering he was doing this for closure. He needed to close the door on his horrible childhood and move on. 

“What are  _ you _ doing here?” Petunia Dursley stood before him, looking much the same as she always had, save for being, perhaps, a little grayer. Her voice was hesitant and almost cold, but it wasn’t as shrill as the many orders and insults that had been directed his way as a child. Somehow, it was jarring to see her. It had been so long since he’d seen her – just over three years, not that he was counting – and the memories her appearance brought forth were incredibly unpleasant.

Harry smothered this, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the way they shook. This was even harder than he thought it was going to be. “I needed to talk to you,” he replied as calmly as he could.

His aunt’s cold, pale green eyes searched his face. “Make it quick, I have to start on dinner for Vernon,” she snapped, crossing her bony arms and leveling him with what she clearly hoped was an intimidating stare.

Harry just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Long gone were the days when the Dursleys could frighten or annoy him with a single look or a waspish word. He had been through so much that they were practically insignificant to him anymore.

“You are a horrible person,” he said finally, ignoring the glare she gave him. His aunt moved to close the door but found it was stuck open, a product of a spell that Hermione had cast from the car to keep her from running away from the confrontation. He knew that if she tried to move her feet, she would find herself stuck in place as well. She had no choice but to listen to what Harry had to say. 

“You were cruel and unloving, and the abuses I received at the hands of your family should have thrown you in jail,” he continued, voice hard. “You didn’t just scar me for sixteen years, you did your own son a disservice, and allowed him to grow into a spoiled bully. I should hate you. But despite all that, I forgive you.”

Petunia opened her mouth to speak, but Harry spoke right over her, needing to get the words out. “I know now that you were nothing but a scared woman and let your jealousy and bitterness get the best of you,” he continued. “I also know that despite what you may say, you lost a sister just as I lost a mother. That’s why I have something for you.”

Harry reached into the bag that was slung over his shoulder, digging around until he procured a bundle of letters tied with a red string. Across the front of the first letter, in a more childish version of his mother’s now-familiar slanted script was the name ‘Tuney Evans.’ This continued, Harry knew on each letter in the bundle, which spanned the ten years between his mother’s arrival at Hogwarts and her death, though the address slowly changed to ‘Petunia Evans’ and later, ‘Petunia Dursley’ as time passed. None of them had ever been sent.

“She wrote to you,” he explained, holding the stack out. His aunt stared at the carefully inked name with trepidation, as though she expected a catch. “At least twice a month for ten years, but I think she knew not to expect a reply from you. I found them in my parents’ vault at Gringotts – say what you want about them, but they saved the important things.”

In fact, Harry had acquired access to the Potter family belongings stashed in a vault almost as deep in the bank as that of Bellatrix Lestrange, that was decades old and filled with portraits, photographs, and documents. It was surprising to everyone when he received the letter telling him about it two months after the Battle of Hogwarts. He still had yet to go through everything.

The letters had been the best thing in the vault, he thought. He’d read each of them dozens of times, and it was only after Hermione had them photocopied that he made the decision to give them to their rightful owner. The last of the letters was dated just a week before that fateful Halloween night.

“Why would you give me these?” Petunia asked, still eying the letters with a frown. 

Harry shrugged. “Ron says I’m too nice for my own good,” he admitted cheerily. When she didn’t laugh – not that he expected her to, really – he dropped his smile. “They’re yours, aren’t they?”

Petunia nodded and took them from him. A haunted look crossed her face before it returned to its regularly scheduled sneer. “If that’s all, you’ll be going then, I expect,” she said with feigned politeness. Harry nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets again.

“You ought to get started on dinner,” he agreed. “I know Vernon doesn’t like it when it’s late.” He rubbed his shoulder pointedly with one hand, and the woman flinched. Though Vernon Dursley would never raise his hand to his wife, she clearly remembered watching Harry get hit. The thought gave him a strange sense of satisfaction.

His aunt nodded briskly and crossed her arms, eyes falling a spot just behind Harry and her jaw dropping. Harry turned a bit and saw Ginny standing at the end of the sidewalk, waiting for him. “Harry?” she called, raising her eyebrows in a way that indicated she was here to make sure he was okay.

“Just a moment, love,” he called back, before turning back to his aunt. She was staring at him as though she’d never seen him before.

“You have her eyes, you know,” Petunia said, the coldness gone from her voice. 

Harry grinned. “So I’ve heard,” he replied. It was the first time his aunt had mentioned it.

“She’s your girlfriend, then?” she added, jutting her chin towards Ginny. The girl stared back defiantly, raising an eyebrow at the movement. “A bit like her, isn’t she?”

Harry shrugged. “She is,” he agreed.

“Right, well,” Aunt Petunia sniffed, “You’ll be off then? Vernon will be home soon, and I don’t imagine you want to talk to him.”

Harry felt relief at the thought he was being ushered off before his uncle could get home. He didn’t particularly fancy that conversation. “I will. Tell Dudley I said hello,” he replied, turning and starting down the walk. She closed the door partially, but continued to watch him as he walked down the front walk and to Ginny’s side. He paused there and turned back. 

“Goodbye Aunt Petunia,” he called back, sending her a surprisingly relaxed wave. She nodded once and shut the door. 

As Harry climbed into Hermione’s car and ignored the questions that the others threw at him about the conversation, he allowed himself a real smile. He would never set foot at Number Four, Privet Drive again. This was cause for celebration.

“Hermione, take us to the zoo, would you?” he asked, wrapping his arm around Ginny’s shoulder. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come scream at me about literally anything, my tumblr is moonys-crappy-doodles.tumblr.com


	3. Parvati Patil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of dissociation? And blood. Lemme know if there's anything else.  
> I can't decide how I feel about this one tbh, so please tell me what you think?

**Parvati Patil (December 4, 1999)**

 

Hogsmeade weekends, Parvati had discovered, were not nearly as fun when she didn’t attend Hogwarts. The sight of the snow covered shops and the students in casual wear, both of which used to be fun and fill her heart with excitement, now filled her with a feeling of dread that reminded her why neither she nor Padma had returned to school for their Seventh year.

The restaurant she was heading for was tucked away on a side street that rarely went traveled by students. It was fancy enough to be out of most students’ price range, and out of the way enough that not many of them even knew it existed. She certainly hadn’t before Neville’d suggested it.

Parvati was not particularly looking forward to eating dinner with her former Gryffindor yearmates, but it had been Seamus’ idea. Not much made him smile after he and Dean broke up – the last time she’d gone to visit him, in fact, he’d spent the entire time trying to pretend he wasn’t endlessly lonely and she’d resolved to buy him a krup puppy for Christmas to keep him company. When he asked if she would come to dinner, there was no possible way to say no, even if she wasn’t yet able to be present in conversations for extended amounts of time.

She was relieved to find that Neville was already there, saving a round table near the back of the dining room for their group, and hurried over. She chose a seat that was right beside Neville, facing the rest of the room. People behind her still made her nervous, and it was best to not prepare for her night to be a total failure right off the bat.

She spaced out as rest of their group slowly trickled in, knowing full well that who she really wanted to see wouldn’t be coming anyway. And saw everyone else often enough that it didn’t really merit the excitement she supposed it was meant to bring.

She’d visited Ron and Hermione and Harry at their London flat and brought her sister’s brilliant mind to come up with a way to remove permanent sticking charms from portraits and the like, in an attempt to help them spruce up the flat he’d inherited after his godfather died. (Getting rid of the particularly nasty portrait of Walburga Black had been cause for celebration.)

Neville was around often enough, as the flat she shared with her sister was in Diagon Alley, not far from where he lived with his girlfriend above the Leaky Cauldron. She tried to visit Seamus at least once a month, and Dean worked with her at Flourish and Blotts while they both tried to get back on their feet, so really, it was just Lavender she missed.

But Merlin, did she miss Lavender.

No one, save for Seamus, had seen the girl since not long after the Battle, when she’d been in a ward at St. Mungo’s bandaged up and unable to speak. Seamus swore she’d been doing well, but she wasn’t accepting visitors, not even Parvati. And that was what stung the most, that she’d rather see Seamus Finnegan’s dopey face than hers, even after everything they’d gone through, even after – 

Neville elbowed her gently in the side, and Parvati jumped, startling herself from her thoughts and back to reality. The rest of the table was full but for a chair in between Seamus and Hermione. Parvati doubted it would ever be filled.

“She said she’d come,” Seamus was saying, nodding towards the empty seat. “I imagine it’s hard for her to be out and about nowadays.”

Ron nodded, frowning at his plate. “George still hardly leaves the house, leaves the shop to be run by Lee for the moment.”

Parvati could relate, but she didn’t say it. She barely ever left the house anymore, unless it was for work, too afraid she would space out and cause problems. Staying focused for too long led to thinking and thinking led to fear and screaming and that was nothing good.

Just as she was letting herself fall down that perilous train of thought, there was a cheer from Dean and Seamus, and Parvati looked up to find a familiar beauty heading for their table. 

Lavender looked so different without the bandages that Parvati had last seen her in. She wore a dark red dress, with long sleeves and a higher collar to cover the thick pink scars that covered her chest and arms. A matching bow pinned her curls to cover still more of the damage that marred her once-smooth neck. Parvati found her eyes drawn to them. She knew it was rude but she couldn’t look away.

The screaming. That’s what she remembered the most, what hurt the most. The screaming and the blood, nearly the same color as her dress, and then it was quiet, too quiet. She blinked hard, trying to forget that night, but it was there, imprinted on the backs of her eyelids like it’d been charmed to play there for eternity.

Lavender smiled, a pretty pink curl of her lips. “Sorry I’m late, I had a thing,” she said as she sat down. Her voice was deep, husky and almost strained. 

Blood, so much blood. 

Parvati cursed under her breath. Now was not the time.

Seamus said something. Lavender laughed. Fire from the bridge. Burning. The smell of death.

Ron and Harry were saying something. Neville put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Death Eaters stormed the hall. Light flashing. Screaming. Blood.

Parvati stood, shoving her chair backwards and grabbing her cloak. “I need some air,” she muttered as politely as she could, rushing from the table and out the door into the snow before anyone could stop her. If she could just get to the Floo station, she could go home. Padma promised to stay home tonight, just in case something happened.

Blood. So, so much pain. Someone was screaming.

“Parvati!” Dean’s voice broke through the fog, and Parvati managed to shake herself into consciousness. She had made it to the main thoroughfare of Hogsmeade, but was doubled over, crumbled on the cold ground. The hood of her thick cloak had fallen over her face, but she could feel the eyes of the students and shopowners on her. Suddenly she realized why – she was the one who was screaming.

“Par, come on, let’s get you home,” Dean muttered, carefully taking her by the elbow and pulling her to her feet. 

“I’m fine, Dean, really,” she tried, feeling her face flushing. She was so weak, always having these stupid flashbacks.

Dean scoffed, wrapping an arm tightly around her shoulder. “You aren’t,” he replied easily.

He glanced at the people pretending that they weren’t watching them from the street. 

“A war hero is allowed to break down sometimes,” he added, purposely raising his voice. The silent observers quickly looked away.

 

Parvati’s hair fell into her eyes as she ducked her head. She hated this. Everyone else had managed to get over it, but here she was, still haunted by images and phantom pains of her past. It was a curse nearly as bad as the torture she’d faced during the battle. 

When they reached the Floo station, tucked away in a hidden part of the post office, Dean helped her pull her cloak further around her, hugging her close as he called out the address to the Patil sisters’ flat. Parvati hid her face in his shoulder, sick from the dizzying spiral through the fireplaces of many wizard families until they finally reached the right mantle.

True to her word, Padma was curled in her favorite armchair with a book and a cup of tea when they fell into a pile on the floor. She hurried forward and helped them up, taking Parvati’s now shaking body from Dean’s arms and depositing her on the sofa. She was wrapped in a warm knitted blanket from Ron’s mother, a warm mug of tea between her shaking hands.

Dean and Padma muttered to each other for a moment before exchanging brief hugs. Dean dropped a brotherly kiss onto Parvati’s forehead before stepping into the fireplace once more, leaving the twins alone.

“So, how was dinner?” Padma asked cheerily, as if Parvati wasn’t pale as she could be with a face covered in frozen tears. “Is Neville’s internship doing well?”

“Lavender was there,” Parvati mumbled bitterly, taking a long sip of her tea so she wouldn’t have to elaborate. Her sister froze, the carefully light set of her shoulders tightening for just a moment. Concerned. Padma was concerned.

Of course she was. No one else knew how much she cared about Lavender, but Padma had been privy to many a midnight ranting and tearful confession. She was worried about how Parvati would take it.

“How was she?” she asked carefully, voice still as falsely light as before.

“I miss her,” Parvati said instead, a tear rolling down her tan cheek. “I saw her and I panicked. She’s so hurt. I saw her and it all came back. All the pain, and the screaming, and the blood.” She shuddered, pulling the blanket closer around her. 

“Oh, Parvati,” Padma sighed, settling beside her on the couch and pulling her close. “You don’t always have to be brave, you know. It’ll get better eventually.”

Parvati rolled her dark eyes. “I’m supposed to be the brave one,” she said pointedly. “Yet you can walk around fine and dandy, with your fancy Ministry internship, and I’m a babbling mess in the snow in front of a bunch of thirteen year olds!”

“That’s much braver than me,” Padma argued. “I wouldn’t have even gone. You think you’re the only one struggling like this? I have nightmares, you know. Most everyone does. It was traumatic. You had the Cruciatus curse used on you more times than I know – that would mess anybody up.”

“I-“

“No,” Padma said, sitting away and taking her sister’s chin in her hands to make her look. “You listen to me, Parvati. You are braver than anyone I know. You are going to get better. You have so many people who will help you. And Lavender Brown will see that one day and realize everything she missed out on without you. I promise.”

A small smile spread across Parvati’s face. “You’re the best sister, you know that?” she asked, leaning in for another hug.

Padma rolled her eyes as she pulled away. “No way,” she replied lightly. “That honor belongs to you.”


	4. Blaise Zabini

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Blaise???? SO MUCH. I need more about my boi tbh. Agh.
> 
> Also I headcanon him as being part Italian, because Zabini is an Italian last name. Thus, the Italian pet names he uses for his daughter. Also, his wife is an italian witch in case you didn't notice.

Blaise Zabini (June 17, 2007)

After Hogwarts, Blaise found himself drifting. Having been a Slytherin who stayed out of the war, most of his former friends were in Azkaban or under house arrest, and the remainder considered him a bit of a traitor. His interactions with his yearmates were reduced to the occasional letters from the Greengrass sisters, Pansy, and Draco. 

For the most part, Blaise was content with this. He spent his days at his clothing store in Diagon Alley, and his evenings with his wife, an Italian witch named Maria, and his daughter. Limited interactions with the people of his youth meant they were safe, and he would do anything to keep them safe. 

That was the thing – as much as Blaise liked to pretend that he was fine after the war, he lived in fear of something happening to them. That fear was what kept him from allowing Magdalena out of the Zabini manor more often than not, leaving her in the care of his mother while he and Maria were at work. (While the knowledge of what his mother was capable of was equally worrying, he knew she’d do nothing to hurt her own granddaughter.)

Unfortunately, his mother was getting on her years, and she had monthly appointments at St. Mungo’s to keep her health up and ensure she never looked her age. Usually, Maria was able to take the day off to watch Mag, but on this particularly sunny June day, she had an urgent meeting at the Ministry and a doctor’s appointment of her own in the afternoon. Which meant for the first time in Mag’s young life, she was going to be spending the day at Blaise’s shop. 

He rushed around the shop, picking scissors and pins up from places where the three-year-old could easily reach. His manager, Danae, stood in the doorway of the storeroom, watching him with her eyebrows raised. 

“I’ve never seen you show this much emotion at once before,” she commented drily as Blaise shut the door tightly on the tailoring room. She caught the key when he tossed it to her, and watched him lean back letting out a sigh of relief at his newly toddler-proofed shop. “You know that if she really wants to get something, she’ll find a way, right?”

Blaise shrugged. “In that case I’m making things as hard as possible for her,” he replied, standing up straight as emerald green flames roared to life in the fireplace. Maria stepped out gracefully, as always, with Mag clutching her tightly and burying her face in her mother’s shoulder.

“Sorry we’re a bit late,” Maria said, carefully placing Mag on the floor and whipping a bag off her shoulder to hand to Blaise. “I couldn’t find my ID badge.”

Blaise nodded, leaning down so Mag could run into his arms. “Take all the time you need, my love,” he said kindly, kissing the top of his daughter’s head as he lifted her up.

“You be good for Papa, you hear me?” Maria directed the question at their daughter. “I’ll see you both tonight.”

She left as quickly as she came, the smell of smoke and rose petals lingering in the air behind her. Mag leaned back to peer into her father’s face and tilted her small head.

“What are we doing today, Daddy?” she asked excitedly, blinking up at him with her nearly violet eyes. 

Blaise adjusted her on his hip and headed for the front counter, where he perched his daughter on the glass countertop and opened the cash register to count the change. “Well, _polpetta_ , I have to wait until two more employees arrive to help Ms. Danae, and then you and I are heading out to post advertisements in other shops to get ready for the school year. And then, I was thinking there might be a little girl who wants some ice cream?” 

Mag gasped, pressing her chubby hands to her cheeks. “Ice cream?” she asked incredulously. Blaise grinned and nodded. He’d been told once that his grin made him look like he was a dog about to bite, but it seemed to delight Mag. The toddler clapped her hands happily, kicking her feet against the counter before she could remember that wasn’t allowed. 

She started chattering happily, watching her father work as he cleaned the shelves and rearranged the jewelry display. Blaise’s eyes kept darting towards the doorway and fireplace wearily, concerned that someone with a long-held grudge against him would hear about Mag and use her against him. Maybe he should just take her home.

Ethan and Artemis arrived not long after he finished straightening the window display with Mag’s help, arguing over something that he didn’t particularly care to enquire about. With a quick wave, he scooped Mag up, put a folder of fliers into her bag, and they stepped out into the alley.

Mag stared around with wide eyes, watching the morning rush of wizards hurrying towards Gringotts. She let out a small “wow” at the sight, curling her fingers into Blaise’s shirt as she leaned over to peer in the window of the shops they passed. 

Blaise smiled fondly at her, hoisting her higher on his hip, and pointing towards the tall, marble-pillared building farther up the street. “That’s Gringotts,” he said, watching the awed look in his daughter’s eyes. “We need to stop there first, so I can get some money for our ice cream.”

With practiced ease, he weaved through the crowd, answering his daughter’s quiet inquiries about the shops they passed. The goblin in the doorway of Gringotts eyed them warily, despite Mag waving at it brightly. 

Entering the huge, marbled entry to Gringotts seemed to take the toddler by surprise. She was so bemused by it all, leaning back with wide eyes and staring up at the high ceilings, that she didn’t even notice when Blaise clutched her tighter, holding her closely as he hurried past a figure shrouded in a black robe.

In fact, she seemed endlessly enthralled by the whole experience, not even complaining about the dizzying ride down to the vault, the grumpiness of the goblin, or the darkness of the vaults once they arrived. Everything was taken in with a childlike wonder that Blaise wished he possessed. Seeing such things for the first time, with no knowledge of the war they’d been through, had to be incredible.

He let himself ignore the anxiety at the pit of his stomach as he watched his daughter, eventually even letting her wander along the cobbled streets herself, though he held her hand tightly at all times.

The last place he expected anything to happen was in Quality Quidditch Supplies. 

He left Mag by the Holyhead Harpies merchandise, smiling at the way her small fingers trailed over the faces of the women on the team, eying the natural curls of Angelina Johnson with particular awe. 

Blaise turned to speak to Mr. Flightwin, the owner of the store, about leaving coupons for quidditch robes at the counter. When he turned back, Mag had disappeared. 

Panic flared in his chest as he looked around the small shop and saw no sign of her. He knew that he should have just stayed home with her. There were too many people who would hurt her to get to him, too many people who still held grudges that were a decade old. She was gone and it was his fault. She could be hurt. They could hurt her. Someone could hurt his baby girl.

With this thought in mind he darted out of the store, pulling himself to his full height to scan the street. The ball of fear that lodged itself in his throat grew with every passing second. He turned on his heel and half-ran up the street, towards where Knockturn Alley converged with Diagon. If anyone had taken Mag, that’s where they’d be headed. He was sure of it.

“Magdalena!” he yelled, shoving past a witch with a particularly tall pointy hat. “Mag?” 

“Daddy!” 

He whipped around at the sound of her small voice, searching through the crowd for her. Someone was holding his daughter in the doorway of Avalon Toys, clutching her to their chest as she waved for Blaise. A blind panic took over him, and he barely remembered getting from one end of the street to the other before Mag was pushed safely behind him and his wand was at the stranger’s throat.

“Don’t you dare touch my daughter ever again,” he snapped, eyes hard. He heard his daughter let out a small whimper, clutching at the legs of his pants.

The person laughed warmly, tilting their head. “It’s nice to see you have emotions besides cold indifference, Zabini,” they said.

Blaise froze, stepping back and letting his wand arm drop to his side. The few people who’d stopped to stare at the commotion hurried away, glancing at the trio as they went. Soon, Blaise was left alone with Mag and – “Malfoy,” Blaise said coolly.

Mag stepped forward a little now that the danger was past, peering between the men cautiously. There was a tense silence before Malfoy broke it with a laugh, running a hand across his perfectly styled hair.

“I must say, that is not the greeting I’d expect from you,” he chuckled, smiling kindly down at Mag. She waved timidly back, a small smile crossing her face.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Malfoy,” he apologized, bending down to lift Mag to her spot on his hip. “Our school years have left me a bit paranoid. You can understand that I never want anything to happen to my daughter.”

Malfoy nodded, smiling at the girl on Blaise’s hip. “Of course,” he replied. “My own son is four. I live in fear that something will happen to him.”

“Ah, yes, Scorpius is it? I believe Astoria mentioned in an owl.”

“Yes, he’s the light of my life,” he said, a smile that Blaise wasn’t sure he’d ever seen crossing the other man’s face. “And this is Mag, correct?”

Blaise smiled. “Yes, short for Magdalena. She’s three. This is her first time in the alley.”

“Lucky I was the one who happened upon her, then, isn’t that right, Mag?” Draco said with a thin smile. There was something haunted in his eyes. Blaise knew that things hadn’t been great for him after the war, that only the intervention of Harry Potter saved him and his mother from Azkaban and shortened his father’s sentence. A part of his heart ached for the man that he once called his friend, and the child he was raising.

Mag nodded vigorously, flashing him a dimpled smile. “Uh-huh. Daddy, Mr. Malfoy was helping me find you, only I didn’t know your name so that made it harder. And I found you! Isn’t he nice?”

“He’s very nice, _tesoro_ ,” Blaise replied, kissing the top of her curly hair. “We were friends when we went to school. Did you know that?” 

Mag shook her head. “Nope,” she popped the ‘p,’ and Blaise felt his heart melting at her adorableness. If there was one thing that always broke him, it was Mag. She was the cutest thing he’d ever seen – not that he’d seen many particularly cute things.

Malfoy hummed softly. “Mag, how would you like to make a friend someday?” he asked, eyes locked on Blaise’s face. Blaise frowned. What was he getting at?

Shock crossed the little girl’s face. “A friend?” she asked excitedly, looking quickly between Blaise and Malfoy as if she was watching a particularly active quidditch match. “Who?

“My son, Scorpius, is about your age,” he continued. “I think it’d do both you and your father some good to come over some time. We have a lovely cottage in the village of Merlin’s Hill, you should bring Maria, make a day of it.” The last part was directed at Blaise, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Are you trying to get me out of the house more, Malfoy?” he asked wryly, a small smirk on his face. 

“From the looks of things you need it,” Malfoy replied. “And it’s purely selfish. Tori doesn’t get out much since Scorpius was born, and he doesn’t have many friends – I’m not particularly keen on him spending time with Parkinson’s girl, for good reason. He has cousins through Daphne, but they don’t get along particularly well. Too rowdy. This would be good for him. And for Mag, too, I imagine.”

Blaise thought for a moment before shifting Mag’s weight. “Alright,” he said, holding out his hand for a handshake. “I’ll owl you to discuss the details.”

When Malfoy walked away, Blaise set Mag down, watching the man as he made his way towards Gringotts, cutting through the crowd of wizards like a knife through soft cheese. For the first time in ten years, Blaise felt like he had a friend. 

Mag was tugging impatiently at the leg of his trousers, a small pout on her face. “Daddy, you promised ice cream,” she complained. 

“I did,” he agreed, laughing a little and ruffling her hair, much to her dismay. “Let’s go, then.” Mag let out a small squeal of joy, tugging his hand and leading them the wrong way. He laughed and swung her around the other direction.

For the first time in years, he felt light. Happy.

 


	5. Ginny Weasley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM ALMOST THREE DAYS LATE BLAME MY PROCRASTINATION SKILLS BUT HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY!!! (and also Neville his was four days ago and he is very important to me.)

**Ginny Weasley (July 31, 1998)**

Ginny hipchecked Hermione as she slipped past her in the kitchen of the Burrow. The bowl in her arms tilted dangerously, and Hermione quickly grabbed it, setting it on the counter beside her. 

“Really, Gin, calm down,” she said carefully, wiping chocolate cake batter off of Ginny’s cheek. Ginny glared at her, ducking under her arm to grab the bowl again begin pouring it into a pan.

“This is the first year that Harry can have a good birthday, ‘Mione,” she said, aggressively scraping cake batter off of the sides of the bowl. Her pale, freckled hands shook around the spatula. “It has to be perfect.” 

Hermione frowned, taking a step closer and pulling the bowl out of Ginny’s arms. She took over pouring it into the bowl with practiced ease. “Is this really about making it perfect for Harry, or is it about something else?” she asked carefully. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ginny snapped back, crossing her arms over her chest. She avoided her friend’s concerned look, shoving down the wild panic filling her throat. She needed to do this for Harry, for the hollow look in her parents’ eyes and the pained look in her brothers’ faces. They needed to smile. The only way to make them smile was to make this perfect.

The sound of Hermione setting the kitchen timer snapped her out of her daze, and she watched the older girl wipe down the counter, which Ginny had turned into an utter mess. “Stop that,” she said, tossing the towel into the basket in the corner of the kitchen. “You’re panicking. It’s three in the morning - you go to bed, I’ll finish baking the cake and pull it out to cool. We can ice it when you wake up.”

“No, I’m fine,” Ginny said, shaking her head. She wasn’t tired, far too wired to sleep. Another frown edged its way onto Hermione’s face, but she soon let out a large yawn. “Go to bed, ‘Mione.”

The older girl tried to argue, but another yawn cut her off. Ginny pushed her towards the stairs and she stumbled up them tiredly, heading, more than likely, for Ron’s attic bedroom. Once she was certain Hermione was really going to bed, she turned back to the kitchen, pulling her wand from where she’d stashed it in the side of her tall socks, hopping up onto the counter as she waved it to start the ice cream maker that she’d helped her father repair a few years before. The mixture she’d prepared earlier flew from the icebox and into the maker, and salt dumped itself into the frozen sides. A small yawn escaped her lips as the loud mixing began.

She cast a silencing charm on the ice cream maker so it wouldn’t wake her family and flicked her wand once more to make the radio turn on. It was quiet, playing a Weird Sisters song that was a good four years old but the familiar notes made some of the tension leave her broad shoulders.

“Groove around like a scary ghost, spooking himself the most,” Ginny sung along softly, kicking her socked feet in time to the music. It had been a long time since she’d just listened to the band that had once been her favorite and actually heard what was happening. The song was silly, but maybe she could use a little silly.

It seemed like no time had passed, but soon enough, the timer went off. She slid off of the counter and turned the timer off, pulling the cakes from the oven to cool. The gentle warmth through the cloth of her potholders kept her from thinking about the reason for the cake, the urgency she’d felt just an hour before subsiding.

“Is this for me?”

Ginny whipped around, nearly hitting Harry in the face with her thick, red braid. Harry chuckled, holding up his dark hands in surrender. “That thing is a weapon,” he smirked. Ginny stuck her tongue out.

“It was an accident,” she complained, grabbing the thawed butter she’d left on the counter. She had to stand on her tiptoes to pull the powdered sugar out of the cupboard where her mother kept it safely out of reach of her brothers. She silently wondered how the woman ever got it down for herself. “Grab the cocoa for me, please,” she added, waving her hand towards the pantry.

The panic was back, the same urgency to make this as perfect as possible, and she nearly spilled the powdered sugar as she measured it out. Her hands were shaking despite the conscious effort she made to hide it. Harry’s hands covered her own, steadying her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, turning her around before she could protest. Ginny avoided his gaze, taking a shuddering breath. She didn’t know why her heart was pounding in her chest and her breathing shook, why she felt the urge to scream. Harry tilted her head up and pressed his forehead to hers. His breath tickled her cheeks, and she tried to match them.

“It has to be perfect,” she said finally, closing her eyes. “I need it to be perfect.”

Harry’s hands slid from her shoulders and down her arms until he caught her hands, threading his fingers through her own. “Why does it need to be perfect?” he asked quietly, his thumbs rubbing soft circles on the backs of her hands.

“Everything is wrong,” she admitted. “The house is so full, but it’s empty, and it’s over but we’re still sad, and I just need everyone to smile. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t take everyone moping anymore, and the only way to fix it is to give you the perfect birthday. You deserve the perfect birthday after everything.”

Harry pulled back from her forehead just enough to nod. “I understand,” he said carefully, pressing a small kiss to the top of her head. “But no matter what you do, it’ll be perfect. To me, anyway.”

“Promise?” Ginny hated how weak her voice sounded, even though she knew Harry wouldn’t judge her.

“I promise,” he agreed. “Now what are we doing?”

Ginny shoved him away with a laugh, shooing him towards the table. “You’re not doing anything,” she said firmly. “I’m going to make you a cake and you’re going to keep me company and not peek.” She pressed a chaste kiss to his lips and danced away as he tried to grab her around the waist for more. A small laugh escaped her lips despite the panic that she was still pushing to the back of her mind.

She returned to measuring out the powdered sugar, and dumping it in with the butter. She mumbled a spell as she flipped her wand at the bowl, watching a whisk whip them together for a moment before she stopped it.

Harry hummed in interest. “You know, muggles have a machine that does that,” he said, propping his chin in his hand. “I could make your life so much easier if we got a flat together.”

Butterflies filled Ginny’s stomach at the thought, but she shoved them to the side, measuring out the cocoa powder, vanilla, and cream. “I look forward to it,” she said, throwing a smirk over her shoulder. She muttered the spell again and the whisk began to whip the ingredients into a frosting. 

She leaned back on the table and poked Harry’s calf with her toes. “Hey, hey, happy birthday,” she said with a small smile. Harry flashed her a white-toothed grin.

“I’ll never get used to hearing that,” he admitted, scratching at the back of his neck.

“You better,” she said seriously. “I plan on being at all of them.” The red color that spread across Harry’s cheeks warmed her heart.

Getting the cake ready went quickly with Harry to keep her company. It seemed like only a few minutes before she was covering the cake up and putting a cooling spell on it, sure that fitting it in the icebox would be too much work. It wasn’t until she glanced at Harry’s watch that Ginny realized it was almost seven in the morning, and she hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep.

She rubbed at her eyes tiredly, and Harry frowned. “Do you need to go to sleep?” he asked, taking her elbow to guide her to the couch. Ginny collapsed onto it, dragging Harry down beside her, and curled into his side.

“I’m not tired,” she lied, reaching out to turn on the radio and flipping to PotterWatch. Despite the end of the war, PotterWatch remained a staple in many homes. It seemed that Lee had found his calling, running his radio station, which was slowly getting more and more popular.

At some point, the sounds of a small Wizarding band, Green Light, put Ginny to sleep. She must have been really out, because she didn’t even hear her family waking up, and managed to sleep through both breakfast and lunch. She didn’t wake up until Ron carefully shook her awake, his face obnoxiously close to her own.

“Gin, come on,” he whispered, the smell of her breath filling her nose. “The party’s gonna start soon, and ‘Mione and I can only hold Harry off for a few more minutes before he’ll catch onto us. You’ve got to change.”

Ginny sat bolt upright, her head nearly cracking against Ron’s in the process. She shoved her brother out of the way, ignoring the concern in his blue eyes, and hurried out of the living room, running up the stairs two at a time to her bedroom.

She threw off her comfy t-shirt and worn out jeans, trading them for an outfit she’d picked out the day before. Her hair came out of the braid and she tossed it into a high ponytail, yanking on some boots that Hermione had bought her at a muggle mall for her fifteenth birthday, and pounded back down the stairs.

At some point, someone had coaxed Harry into a nicer shirt and Hermione was attempting to comb his hair flat. He heard Ginny coming and brushed his friend off, holding out his arms to pull her close. “What are you planning?” he asked with a grin.

Ginny fluttered her lashes innocently. “You’ll see,” she replied, pulling him into the backyard. 

Charlie, Bill, and her father had brought the table into the yard, summoning more tables to line the grass. The cake was hidden in its container on the longest table, which was filled to the groaning with food that she, Hermione, and her mother had spent days making when Harry wouldn’t notice. The fairy lights that someone had strung in the bushes really made it look magical.

The concern ebbed away at the look of the yard. Someone had dragged George out of his room, and the man was tucked into a chair in the corner with a sad smile on his face. Percy was helping Charlie tie balloons to the mailbox as Bill and Fleur set up a pathway of balloons from the road and around the house. Her parents were nowhere to be seen, so Ginny imagined they were getting ready upstairs. 

“Surprise?” she said, turning to grin sheepishly at Harry. His green eyes were wide as he stared around the yard, a gentle breeze ruffling his dark hair.

“This is perfect,” he said softly. “I don’t know what you were worried about.” 

Ginny shrugged, lifting a hand to wave as Luna appeared over the top of the hill. “That remains to be seen,” she said. She watched as Luna swung a bagged present easily, half-skipping up the path. She paused to say something to Percy, and Ginny was astonished to see him laugh. She couldn’t remember the last time the man had smiled, let alone laughed. Maybe a party was just what everyone needed.

Soon the yard was filled with guests. Ginny had managed to wrangle nearly everyone Harry knew, from Professor McGonagall and Kingsley to the Patil twins and most of the rest of Dumbledore’s Army. She’d caught Neville’s arm and tipped a box full of candy and a book on American herbology into his arm hands when he arrived, wishing him a quiet happy birthday, to his surprise.

Hermione waved her over to unveil the cake, and Ginny quickly crossed the yard from where she’d been discussing quidditch with Oliver Wood. Her mind was racing with what Wood had said about her quidditch skills, how if she wanted, after finishing school, she could easily swing a spot on a professional team. The thought had filled her with an excitement she almost didn’t recognize. 

She was focused on the cake and on what Wood had said, and nearly missed George talking quietly to Lee Jordan under the tree in the corner of the yard. Ginny paused, craning her neck to eavesdrop. She couldn’t quite hear what they were saying from where she was standing, but she could see them decently enough.

Lee said something, and George smiled gently, something that made Ginny nearly fall over in shock. He ducked his head, and Lee ruffled his hair and grinned. George’s cheeks turned a bright red, and he moved away. 

Seeing her brother happy again made Ginny’s heart fill with warmth. He deserved it after what had happened. For that matter, all of her brothers were smiling widely, immersed in conversations across the yard. Harry was holding Teddy Lupin, who was playing with his face delightedly, and the pair were laughing up a storm. 

Her heart filled with something she hadn’t experienced in over a year, since before the war and the fighting. Probably even longer, since she was fourteen and learning how to fight from Harry, and Sirius and Tonks and Lupin and Fred were still alive, when she was vaguely cognizant that they were fighting a war but it still didn’t seem  _ real _ . It was a feeling of freedom, of joy, a feeling that lifted all the pain away for a moment and let a real, wide grin cross her face. 

Maybe things were still a little imperfect, but it would be okay someday.


	6. Oliver Wood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oliver is very important to me okay okay. Also I have no idea how adoption works but I know you don't just... walk in and pick a kid or whatever, so it's supposed to be implied that he spends time with Ivy and whatnot so yeah this is just like the beginning

**Oliver Wood (November 2001)**

Oliver leaned against the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, below a Puddlemere United poster that, annoyingly, had his face plastered across it. His teammates were inside, acting like a bunch of teenagers with too much pocket money and making the small shop feel tight and crowded. Not something he was overly fond of.

Diagon Alley was delightfully empty this time of year, or as empty as it ever was. Though it was still filled with witches and wizards buying and selling wares, it wasn’t anywhere near as busy as the summer or winter tended to be. 

A breeze whipped down the street, mussing up his hair. Oliver shivered and turned to go back inside – his sweater wasn’t nearly warm enough to tolerate this weather. A small voice from the doorway of the shop across the street stopped him.

“Are you Oliver Wood?” 

Oliver plastered on his Quidditch Star smile and turned back around, searching for the source of the small voice. Standing on the front step of Avalon’s Toy Menagerie was a small girl with dark brown hair. She clutched a doll to her chest with one hand, and the robe of a young blonde woman with the other. The fakeness of Oliver’s smile melted. He loved children.

He stepped forward and knelt in front of the little girl, nodding his head. “I sure am,” he replied with a grin. “What’s your name?”

The girl shrugged and hid in the fold of the witch’s robes, staring out at him with large dark eyes. The woman let out a small laugh and placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“This is Ivy,” she said fondly. “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh, you are, huh?” Oliver asked. The little girl nodded quickly, her brown hair falling into her eyes.

“Listening to your matches really cheers her up when the other kids mess with her,” the witch continued. “We’ve been trying to get tickets to one of the matches, but the Department won’t give us extra money to take her to do things. They say she’s too vulnerable.”

Oliver frowned, standing up to look at the woman. “The Department?”

The woman nodded gravely, holding up a finger to tell him to wait and ushering Ivy inside the store. “The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Child Services division,” she explained. “I’m Alithea McKnare, I work at the London Home for Magical Children. Ivy is an orphan. Her parents were killed by Death Eaters when she was just a baby.” 

That was a story he knew too well. After the battle, there were plenty of children without homes or families, and plenty of families without children. His own father had been killed after Voldemort came back. And of course, who could forget Harry Potter and his tragic childhood? His heart bled for the small girl. He wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.

“How old is she?” he asked, finding Ivy through the window. She was staring with wide eyes at training brooms, clutching her doll by the hair. One of her tiny hands was patting her own chubby cheek, as if she couldn’t believe what she was looking at. Oliver was overcome with the strangest urge to scoop her up and protect her from the world.

“She’s three and a half,” Alithea said, following his gaze. “She’d really appreciate an autograph you know.”

Oliver hummed in agreement, patting his pockets for a pen and a piece of paper. “Can I take a picture with her? I’ve got a camera in my pocket somewhere… ah, here it is.” He held the camera out to the woman, a hopeful smile on his face. “And maybe you could write down where your children’s home is?”

The woman smiled, taking the paper and jotting down an address and directions from the nearest Floo Station. Then she called for Ivy. The small girl came running on tiny, chubby legs, and Oliver felt his heart melting. He wanted to help this little girl. He had to help her.

Two weeks later, he found himself on the doorstep of the children’s home, clutching the piece of paper he’d been given that day at Diagon Alley. He took a deep breath and rang the bell. There was yelling, and then the sound of footsteps hurrying towards the door. The woman from that day, Alithea, stood on the other side, her face lighting up when she saw him.

“Mr. Wood!” she exclaimed, opening the door wider to usher him in. “Are you here to see Ivy? Oh, she’ll be thrilled. She keeps telling the others about meeting you, but she’s got such an active imagination, they don’t believe her, the poor thing.”

“Hello, ma’am,” he nodded, following her deeper into the house. “I’d like to look into adopting her, actually.”

Alithea whipped around, narrowing her eyes at him carefully. “You’re aware what that would mean, adopting a toddler?” Oliver nodded, but she seemed unconvinced.  “You’re sure? You’re still young. Most people wouldn’t want a child at your age.”

Oliver chuckled. “I understand,” he agreed. “But I don’t plan on getting married at any point in the future. You’ll find that the most dangerous thing I do is quidditch, and even that is significantly less dangerous than it used to be. I want to adopt her. She needs a family, and I want to be that.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” Alithea pressed. Oliver nodded. “Alright then.”

He couldn’t explain why he wanted to adopt the little girl. Maybe it was something sad in her big brown eyes. Maybe it was just the fact that he was lonely after the war that seemed to steal so many people from him. Or maybe something about her reminded him of Harry Potter’s wide eyes when Oliver was a fifth year, and he wanted to prevent her from the pain that he knew the boy had to have felt as an orphan. 

They’d both lost so much in the war. He was determined to not let this little girl lose anything else.


	7. Dean Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Dean? With all my heart?

**Dean Thomas (May 31, 2004)**

He still looked over his shoulder.

It was dumb, he knew. No one was chasing him, no one was following him, not anymore. Still, he felt compelled to be on his toes, to be ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. He used to carry pencils with him everywhere he went, but slowly his art fell to the side.

His paranoia had cost him a life, friends, and worst of all, it’d cost him Seamus. He was too scared of being caught by Snatchers that didn’t exist anymore, by Aurors that were back to working against evil, to even think about facing the outcry that would come from coming out publicly. It put such a strain on them that Seamus had left him not long after the end of the war.

That was what broke Dean’s heart. 

Padma’s hand on Dean’s shoulder made him jump, shoving the book in his hand to the floor and leaping to his feet with his hand on his wand before he even processed the lack of threat. His roommate stepped back, fear in her dark eyes. 

“It’s just me,” she said softly. “You’re okay.”

Dean relaxed, dropping back into his comfy armchair by the fireplace. “Sorry, Padma,” he said. He refused to look at her, instead locking his gaze on the crackling fire, where a healer’s face was to appear at any moment.

“It’s alright,” she replied, eyes flickering across the fireplace before inspecting the smooth planes of his dark skin. “I’m worried this baby will be bad for you both.”

He frowned, turning to stare at his friend. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Par wants this, and I want to help her.”

“I mean, she’s still got her moments of dissociation, and you’re still on edge all of the time,” Padma explained, keeping her voice neutral. “A baby will probably make you worse, if not my sister. You’ll have someone new to worry about.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Do you think-” he started, but Padma cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“No, Dean, no one will hurt that little girl,” she said firmly. “Not with you and I and Parvati to keep her safe.” The man nodded, though the words were too close to home for him. 

_ “No one can hurt you, Dean, not with me here.” _ Seamus’ voice echoed at the back of his mind. He chose to ignore it.

Instead, he thought of Parvati and the baby on the way. He’d been living with the Patil twins for four years, tired of being on his own and desperate for some semblance of a family after moving out at seventeen. With neither Lavender nor Seamus taking up space in their lives, the two Gryffindors had been particularly lonely. The three of them originally rented a small flat in London, before moving to a larger one in Diagon Alley where they could coexist comfortably. There were enough wards to make Dean’s paranoia calm immensely and potions regimens and psychiatric healers’ visits to keep them all erring on the side of sane. 

A little over a year ago, though, Parvati had admitted she wanted a baby.

When Dean moved in, it had been assumed they were dating by all other parties. As both were gay, but deep enough in the closet that no one knew, they figured it was as safe a cover as any in the conservative wizard community. (Padma, on the other hand, was asexual and aromantic, and quick to correct anyone who assumed otherwise.) This was brilliant, except, well…

Except that the baby ought to be his, or else suspicions would arise. 

It had taken him a few months to come around to it, but eventually he agreed to be a sperm donor and to help co-parent the sprog. In the months since, he’d determined that he had to be the best father ever, because he was damned if anything happened to his little girl. Which unfortunately meant that his paranoia, which had been largely reduced, had come back nearly as strong as it had been during and just after the war.

The fire blazed green and shook Dean from his thoughts. He was on his feet in an instant as Healer Weasley, one of Ron’s sister-in-laws, poked her head through and smiled. “She’s ready for visitors,” she said kindly, before ducking back through the fireplace and, presumably, waiting for them to step through.

Sure enough, when they tumbled into the Maternity Waiting Room of St. Mungo’s, Weasley stood at the side, her dark hair in a plait over one shoulder and her lime green robes reflecting the light. “The baby will be arriving soon,” she said brightly, as if this wasn’t the most terrifying moment in Dean’s life. Padma squeezed his arm reassuringly, though her own hands were clammy and her face pale. Weasley led them to a room down the hallway and stood aside as they were let in. 

“Padma? Dean?” Parvati looked sweaty and tired, but she grinned when she saw her sister and friend. “I was worried you two wouldn’t show up.”

“And miss our kid arriving? Never,” Dean said, dropping into the chair beside her bed and grinning in the lazy way that used to drive Seamus crazy. Padma excused herself for a moment, slipping out the door as a wave of contractions turned her sister into a cursing, screeching mess.

Weasley stepped to the end of the bed, presumably to check dilation or some such nonsense that Dean had a hard time understanding - and wasn’t sure he wanted to. “You’re almost there, Ms. Patil,” she said as the pain ebbed away. “Should I go get your sister?” 

Parvati nodded and pulled the covers up to her chin, looking very much like a small child but for the bump of her stomach beneath the blanket. For a moment, Dean was reminded of the time that there was a large thunderstorm that woke all the first years, prompting a sleepover in the common room that became a tradition, even when they weren’t really getting along. Said tradition had been when he and Seamus had first kissed at fourteen, in the firelight long after the others had fallen asleep, out of plain curiosity of what it was like.

To say fireworks would have been an understatement. 

Too bad it was over now.

Parvati grabbed his arm and let out a scream as her sister walked in. Padma stood back for a moment until the screeching stopped before crossing the room. “Somehow seeing you in pain makes me happy,” she smirked at Dean over Parvati’s head.

“You’re a sadist, you know that?” he replied, rubbing the place where Parvati’s nails had dug into his arm. “You alright, Par?”

“Except for the excruciating pain every few minutes, yeah,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. She turned toward her sister and tilted her head. “Where’d you run off to? I was worried you’d changed your mind about staying.” 

The smirk melted off Padma’s face and was replaced by the gentle look she often adopted when talking to Parvati. “Just had to talk to someone,” she replied softly. “You’ll see soon, I hope. Have you two figured out a name for the kid yet?” 

“Louisa,” Dean said over his friend’s head. “Means ‘famous warrior.’ Bit on the nose, I think, but it’s good with Patil-Thomas, and not many names are.” 

Parvati rolled her eyes and tossed her long, tangled hair over her shoulder haughtily. “I like it, and you’re the one that offered it the first place. Honestly, Dean, you’re acting like it’s anywhere near as bad as some of the names we’ve heard out of our old friends. I mean, honestly, have you heard what Lovegood named her twins?” She cut herself off with a wince and batted at the button that would call for a Healer desperately.

Weasley hurried in, and did whatever nonsense she had to do. “I think it’s time,” she said seriously, and suddenly Dean’s heart started to beat a harsh tattoo in his chest. What if something happened?

Parvati squeezed his hand. “Dean, go wait in the hall,” she said firmly, shooing him towards the door.

“Wait, what?” he asked, startled. She wanted him to leave? Had she changed her mind about co-parenting, or had she been coerced, or-

“You’re just going to spend the entire time panicking and being unhelpful,” Padma explained. “And you’ll be the first in. I won’t even hold her until you get to, alright?” 

Dean nodded slowly, a strange amount of relief filling his lungs. He didn’t really want to be there for the birth. Did that make him a horrible father? Maybe he should argue. The thought hovered at the back of his mind for a only a second before he hurried out the door and headed for the waiting area, wincing at the screeching that escaped behind him before he could close the door and the sound-proofing charms could take hold. 

There was a figure wrapped in a cloak in the waiting room, squished into a corner chair. He frowned, guard instantly up, and sat across the room from them. The figure looked up, started, and stood. Dean reflexively reached for his wand, tucked safely into a holster attached to his hip.

“Dean, it’s been so long,” the person said, voice a little husky and pained sounding. They removed the hood of their cloak to reveal the scarred face of Lavender Brown, smiling with the unmutilated half of her lip. He stood quickly, ready to hug her, but she hung back. He couldn’t help but be a little hurt.

“Too long,” he agreed, sitting back down and gesturing to the chair beside him. “What brings you here?” 

Her face flushed. “Doing my duty as a friend,” she said evasively. Dean frowned, confused, but didn’t reply. He knew a little something about being pushed to say more than you wanted to. They sat in uncomfortable silence, until the doors were shoved open and Parvati’s parents and Seamus stumbled through them.

The Patils grinned and hurried to congratulate Dean on the baby. He took their hugs and kisses and kind words. The warmth from them was almost enough to make up for the absence of his own mother and stepfather. “They kicked you out, huh? Well, at least you didn’t faint the way I did when the twins were born,” Mr. Patil laughed, a jovial smile on his face. 

“He missed Parvati’s birth entirely,” laughed his wife. “You’re perhaps better off out here.”

“That’s what Padma suspected,” Dean admitted. “I’ve been relegated to the waiting room. We didn’t even have dinner yet.”

The twins’ father chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder with a surprising amount of force for such a tiny man. “I’ll go and get us some food from the Cauldron, Mrs. Patil will go and see the girls, and you kids wait here for the healer.” He left as quickly as he came, clearly eager to get out of the hospital as quickly as possible. His wife watched him step through the Floo and laughed, patting Dean’s cheek lovingly before she walked down the hallway to Parvati’s room.

“Long time, no see, mate,” Seamus said awkwardly. He shifted between his feet and offered the lopsided grin that Dean loved. Dean hated the burning pain in his heart at the sight of that smile and warded it off with a harsh glare. 

“There’s a reason for that,” he grumbled. Lavender glanced between the pair of them and frowned a bit, shoving them into seats on either side of her with a long suffering sigh. She crossed her arms and dropped into her own seat. 

“You two are impossible,” she spat.

“Like you and Par are any better,” Dean countered, annoyance dripping from his words, and immediately felt bad about it. Lavender was just trying to help, and despite being a gossip, she hated drama.  

They spent the next while in awkward silence, until Padma appeared in the hallway. She was a bit gray around the edges but she smiled widely and waved for Dean. Suddenly his breath seemed to be caught in his throat. He approached her on shaky legs, hands stuffed into her pockets to hide his panic. What if something had gone wrong?

“She’s here,” Padma breathed, her face lit up in joy. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him down the hall. He stumbled over his long legs in an attempt to keep up with her half-jog, nearly tripping over her robes. They crashed through the door, startling Healer Weasley, and were greeted by a sight that immediately had Dean’s heart in his throat in the best way possible.

Parvati was cradling a small, dark-skinned baby with a shock of curls on top of her head, who was wrapped in a fluffy blanket. She looked up with tear-filled eyes and smiled joyfully at Dean. Padma pushed him forward and he stumbled to the chair beside the bed. His friend carefully placed her in his arms. He peered down at the sleeping baby, adjusting his arms out of fear of dropping her.

“She’s adorable,” he said, and he wasn’t lying. Louisa had a wrinkly, squished little face, and he curls were flat to her head from just being cleaned. Sure, she wasn’t the most attractive little thing, but to him she was perfect. “I love her.” She was his. She was part of him.

“She’s got your smile,” Parvati said. “Wait ‘til she opens her eyes, they’re honey brown, but the Healer says they’ll darken up eventually.”

The door opened and Parvati gasped, but he paid no attention, too concerned in examining his daughter’s tiny features. Her small nose and ears fascinated him. Dean couldn’t believe anything could be so tiny.

“I can’t believe it,” Lavender’s distinctly pained voice whispered, and he glanced up to see her standing in front of him with tears in her eyes. “You’re a mom.”

He glanced at Parvati, who looked like she couldn’t believe that Lavender was standing beside her. He hesitated, then held Louisa up to the woman, who looked ready to sob. Carefully, she scooped the baby into her arms. She sat on the edge of the bed and spoke quietly to Parvati, which Dean decided to ignore, instead glancing around the room. Padma and the Patils were standing on the other side of the bed, each wiping tears from their dark eyes. The he spotted Seamus, who hovered in the corner of the room uncomfortably.

Dean approached him, standing beside the man and watching the girls fawn over the baby. “What are you doing here?” he asked with a small sigh.

“Padma said you were having a kid,” Seamus said. “I couldn’t miss that. You finally found someone you love, huh?”

Dean flinched. That hurt. “I loved you,” he said quietly. “I loved you so much it hurt. But I was scared. I’m not anymore.” He wanted to say that he wanted Seamus back. He wanted more than anything to tell him that he and Parvati weren’t really together, that he’d never love anyone the way he loved Seamus, but there was no point. He’d made his choice years before. He needed someone who wasn’t Dean, and Dean understood.

“I hope you’re happy together,” Seamus said quietly.

“We are,” Dean said, and that was only a half-lie. They weren’t  _ together _ , sure, but they were happy and friends, and that was close enough, he supposed. Padma got up from the bed and brought Louisa over, holding her out to Seamus.

The man took a small step backwards, but Dean nudged him forward. “Hold her, she’s not a demon, Shay,” he laughed. Seamus turned red, and held out his arms. Padma carefully arranged the baby in them, and Seamus looked down at her in awe.

“She looks like you,” he whispered, something almost protective in his voice. Dean flushed and nodded.

“You know, she doesn’t have a godfather,” he said quietly, scuffing the tile floor with the toe of his shoe awkwardly. “Padma is her godmother, obviously, but Par wanted me to choose a godfather and I just… couldn’t find anyone I trusted enough to keep Louisa safe when - if - something happens to us.” Every time he’d tried to make a decision, Dean had felt an unending panic fill his lungs and was gripped by paranoia. There was only one person that he trusted enough to protect his baby girl.

“Shay, would you be her godfather?” he asked, glancing up from the corner of his eye.

Seamus looked taken aback, concerned and overjoyed at the same time. “Me?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. His cheeks turned red. It was adorable. “I’m not- I don’t- we’ve barely talked in years.”

Dean shrugged. “You’re lonely, spoiling my kid might help with that,” he teased. His smirk fell, returning to a regular smile. “You’re my best mate even though we’ve been a bit at odds for a few years. Nothing can change that.”

Seamus grinned. “Alright then, I’ll be the fun one,” he announced. “We should throw a party, I imagine the rest of the DA would love to see her. She’s so amazing. Aren’t you, Lulu?”

Dean groaned. “You are not calling my daughter ‘Lulu.’” At that, Louisa decided to open her small eyes, locking on first Dean, then Seamus and grinning brightly. 

“Look at her, she loves it,” Seamus argued.

“I think that’s just gas,” Dean disagreed with a chuckle.

The room seemed to be filled with joy and sunshine. It had been years since he’d felt so light. There was a nagging sensation that something was going to happen to ruin it, but he ignored it. Everything was fine.

Everything was perfect.


	8. Draco Malfoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always swore that I'd never have a soft spot for Draco Malfoy, but somewhere along the way my resolve cracked. He was just a kid, after all.
> 
> Still think he was an asshole though.

**Draco Malfoy (May 2008)**

Draco’s eyes roamed over his large backyard. Astoria sat in the grass with their son, her delicate hands wiping some dirt from his pale skin. It was so careful and loving of a movement, so different from anything he’d ever received as a child. 

There was a sound by the gate and he leapt to his feet, reaching towards the pocket sewn into his jacket for his wand. In the same moment, his wife scooped Scorpius into her arms, the small boy squirming the whole time, and reached towards her boot for her own wand. The noise got louder, and then someone’s head appeared at the gate. Draco’s wand lowered only slightly when he realized who it was, but he still shot Astoria a look.

She hurried towards the house, squeezing his hand as she passed him, and soon disappeared inside. It was only then that Draco strolled across the lawn, his wand still held tightly in his fist. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he ignored it, a talent he’d picked up in his school years. Nerves were unacceptable. Nerves were dangerous. Malfoys did not get nervous.

(He would never, ever teach his son that, would never for a second let him think emotions weren’t allowed.)

“Potter,” he said sharply. He paused on the other side of the gate from the man, making no move to unlock it. “What are you doing here?”

Potter held up his hands in surrender, eyes on the wand Draco held at his side. “I’m just here to talk, Malfoy.”

The words made Draco bristle a bit. He couldn’t remember a time when Potter had ever said them and followed it up with a casual conversation. He had scars on his chest to prove it. Potters and Malfoys just did not get along.

(Another thing he would never teach his son, the words would never even leave his lips. He would shield him from the prejudice of the past if he had to die doing it.)

Draco tucked his wand back into its pockets, spreading his arms out. “You’re here. Talk,” he said curtly, as if the words didn’t try to strangle him on the way out of his throat. His toes curled in his sneakers, the only physical sign of his nerves. He wanted nothing more than to turn and walk back to the house, back to the small life he’d built for himself with his wife and son, and just forget that he’d even had a life before them.

“Erm, here?” Potter asked, glancing back at the small roads that ran by Draco’s house. Draco nodded once, firmly, and Potter sighed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It took everything in Draco not to flinch at the action. It wasn’t like Potter was planning to pull out his wand and curse him, and if, by some off chance, he was, there were enough protection charms around the property that it would never reach him.

“You know I stepped in during your mother’s trial,” Potter started, eyes locked on a spot in the sky. Draco flinched, tightened his jaw, and nodded. The only thing between Narcissa Malfoy and Azkaban had been Potter’s word that she was not at fault. The same pardon had not quite been extended to his father, though. Draco supposed that was only fair. “You don’t know why.”

“I know she did something for you,” Draco replied. He’d determined as much long ago, when the realization that he wouldn’t have done it otherwise had sunken in, when the feeling of relief that his mother was safe had faded and the only thing left was to question  _ why _ . 

“She did,” Harry admitted easily. “Do you know what?”

Draco shrugged. Malfoys don’t admit curiosity, so he avoided looking interested in what Potter had to say. In fact, that very question had bothered him for years, but he’d never dared to ask.

(He encouraged Scorpius’ curiosity, even took pride in it. He would never stifle it the way his own had been stifled so long ago.)

“She lied to Voldemort,” said Potter. Draco froze. “She told him I was dead. She saved me, and she did it because I told her you were okay. She stood up to Voldemort on the off chance that she could get to you.”

Something in Draco’s heart ached. He loved his mother, loved her almost as much as he loved Astoria and certainly more than he loved his father, but some part of him had always been sure that the all she felt for him was a certain amount of pride and disinterest. 

(Draco would never let Scorpius feel that way, would never let him think for even a moment that his parents didn’t love him.)

“She stood up to  _ him _ ,” he scoffed instead, rolling his eyes skyward as though he could never believe it. “My mother would never. She was a loyal Death Eater to the bone.”

Potter shook his head. “I don’t think she was,” he said. “I don’t think your father was so much either, for what it’s worth. She did what she had to do to keep her family safe.” Potter paused here, kicking at the gravel beneath his feet and looking skyward. He seemed to be searching for something, almost, but whatever it was, he didn’t see it. He looked back to Draco with a small frown tugging at his lips and creasing between his eyebrows.

“I never used to understand it, you know,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t understand how my father, who was always itching for a fight, could hide away instead of being out there. I couldn’t understand how someone like your mother would allow someone like Voldemort into her home, no matter what she believed, and just  _ submit. _ ”

Draco could understand. Draco had always understood. When he was sixteen,  _ he _ had said that unless Draco killed Professor Dumbledore, his parents would die. At sixteen he was told to murder, had their lives placed on his shoulders for a cause that he only believed in because it was all he knew. He knew what it felt like to do anything just to keep your family alive.

“I understand now,” Potter continued. “I have children. Two of them, with a baby on the way, as a matter of fact. I would do anything to protect them. And I… I wanted to say I’m sorry for not understanding that was what you did, you know, back then.”

Draco started. Harry Potter was  _ apologizing _ ? To him? Had he ended up in another world while he slept?

He crossed his arms casually and ran a hand through his blond hair, which was messier than it would have ever been during his school years. “I think you did understand, is the thing, Potter,” he admitted, not quite knowing the words were going to come out of his mouth. “The way you stood up for the Weasley family and Granger? That was the same thing.” He looked away, embarrassed. Once upon a time, he would have included an insult, thrown out heavy, hateful words without fully grasping their meanings. Now he felt the shame brewing in his chest at just the thought.

(Those words were not allowed in the house, were not allowed anywhere near Scorpius. His son played with muggles in the village park as often as he played with Magdalena Zabini, and Draco would be damned if he would allow the thought that they might somehow be lesser cross his son’s mind for even a moment.)

“You’re a lot more observant than you let on, Malfoy,” Potter said with a small smile. “They are my family. Always have been.” He hesitated a bit, almost looking like he expected Draco to spit out a nasty word here, but none came. His eyes skimmed Draco’s comfortable, worn t-shirt dug up by Astoria at a thrift shop, the jeans with holes in the knees and the comfortable shoes on his feet that he would have turned up his nose at years before. “You’ve changed.”

“I have,” Draco admitted. He wouldn’t deny that, wouldn’t deny he was a better man than he’d ever been a boy. He paused for a very long moment before unlatching the gate, swinging it open. “Would you like to have tea?”

Potter grinned. “If you’d like me to,” he said kindly, still not stepping through the gate.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Get in here, Potter, before the defensive spells start to go haywire,” he snapped. Potter nodded and stepped into the yard, heading up the path towards the house at Draco’s nod. As they walked, Draco allowed himself a small smile.

Maybe there were some pieces of the past that he could move on from.


	9. Charlie Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been six years, but Charlie still has some healing left to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so my beta's (hi molly) review of this was, and I quote, "this is an adventure, and I got spoiled by the high school au bc this made me sad," so have fun with this one folks. 
> 
> so, yeah, there's that.

**Charlie Weasley (December 2004)**

Charlie Weasley was many things.

Brave, strong, reckless. A bit too freewilled. He was pretty sure the quarterly progress reports his mother received from McGonagall tended to say something along the lines of, “uncaring of himself, but with a large heart. Doesn’t talk to anyone except for animals.” The only exceptions to that, really, were Tonks and his brothers.

Sure, in school, Charlie’d had friends. You weren’t the star seeker of the quidditch team, Bill Weasley’s younger brother, and Professor Kettleburn’s assistant by fourth year without making a fair few friends. But none of them were the kind that lasted, except for Tonks. Everyone else asked why he didn’t date, or they asked why he was so often studying dragons, or why he didn’t do his homework - not ever - and Charlie just couldn’t take that. He heard enough of it from his mother and Percy.

It wasn’t much of a surprise, then, that once he left Hogwarts and started his apprenticeship at the Dragon Reserve in Romania, most of the people he’d talked to daily during his school years faded from his life.

Tonks was the only one who hadn’t. That much, he supposed, was also to be expected. Tonks was pretty much the best friend he could ask for. She was kind and funny and sarcastic, and she always encouraged him to do what he loved. She never flirted with him, except to ward off unwanted advances, and she never teased him about his utter lack of crushes. They confided in each other constantly, even with a war waging and several countries between them.

He was devastated when she died.

He’d lost the only person who ever really understood him. He’d lost his best friend.

So he withdrew. After summer was over, when it was becoming the time for eggs to start hatching, Charlie went back to Romania and made himself invisible. He spent more and more time with the dragons or locked into his living quarters, and less and less time with the other workers at the reservation. He rarely returned home anymore, only showing up for holidays and birthdays. His family wrote him letters, but Charlie hardly ever wrote back.

There was a new kid working at the reservation now, a tiny dark-skinned boy who shook in fear any time the trees rustled. Charlie wasn’t sure of his name, wasn’t even really sure why the kid was working there when it seemed like a strong breeze would sweep him away.

He didn’t get it until he saw the kid around the dragons. This kid had a natural ease with them, one that Charlie hadn’t seen since, well, himself. For example, he was the only person besides Charlie that Viorica, an old cow who’d long ago lost sight in one eye, had warmed up to. He was calm around the babies and gentle with the few dragons raised in captivity that were specifically assigned to his care. Despite that and his friends gently pushing them together, Charlie ignored him. 

He slid into backrooms when the kid came into the buildings, busied himself with paperwork when he came into the office. One particularly memorable time, he climbed up a tree when the kid was following up on a report of an injured dragon and happened to walk through Charlie’s area. 

The others thought he was being ridiculous. Charlie thought he was protecting his heart. 

The thing was, Charlie knew that this kid was exactly his kind of people. He was shy, but passionate, and his eyes sparked with something mischievous when he talked to the older workers. A few years earlier, Charlie would have been quick to befriend him and take him under his wing. But now he knew friends could be ripped away in an instant. He refused to get close enough to let it happen again.

And then Christmas happened.

A week before the Christmas holidays, Zimbrean, the old wizard in charge, called him into the main office. 

“Weasley,” he grumbled, but his eyes twinkled with delight at the sight of Charlie’s bright red hair. “You’re going home for Christmas, aren’t you?” 

Charlie dropped into the chair in front of Zimbrean’s desk. “I do every year, sir,” he replied, frowning. “What’s wrong?” 

Zimbrean sighed, folding his hands on top of his desk. He shifted in his seat, looking reluctant. “Weasley, you’ve worked here for a long time,” he started. He unfolded his large, calloused hands, shuffling through a stack of papers and files on his desk for a moment until he found whatever he was looking for. “You’ve been here for over a decade. But in the past six years, you’ve retreated. Ever since that war…” Here he sighed, leaning back in his chair to look at Charlie with his piercing dark eyes.

“I lost a lot, sir,” he said, feeling strangely chastised. “My best friend and my brother both died in the final battle. It’s been hard.” 

Zimbrean nodded, pulling large file stuffed with parchment out of the mess on his desk. “This file is filled with letters from your family,” he explained. “Your parents, your siblings, Harry Potter, even. They’re worried about you.”

“I know, sir,” Charlie grumbled, glancing down. “I’m working on it.”

Zimbrean grunted watching him from under his bushy eyebrows. “I have a favor to ask of you, Weasley,” he said finally. “You know Ioan Croitoru, the newest member of our little family?” Charlie nodded. So that was the small kid’s name. 

“He’s an orphan. Eighteen, fresh out of school. Nice kid, reminds me a lot of you when you started. Shy, though,” Zimbrean continued, levelling Charlie with a stare. “I want you to take him home with you for the holiday.”

“What?” Charlie managed. “I don’t even know the kid-” 

“And whose fault is that?” Zimbrean chuckled. Charlie turned red, ducking his head. “Just as I thought. You’ll get along well with him. He just needs a friend. Kids don’t survive very long here without one.”

Charlie sighed, defeated. “I’ll write my mother,” he said.

“See that you do,” Zimbrean agreed. Charlie stood, heading for the door. Things were bad if his boss was setting him up with friends now. He supposed the man was right. It had been six years. Perhaps he had gone too far.  Zimbrean cleared his throat, and Charlie stopped, looking over his shoulder. “And Weasley? Remember I’m always here to talk.”

“Yes sir,” Charlie nodded, slipping out and heading for the Barn.

\----

A week later, Charlie entered the Portkey station with his trunk floating alongside him. The kid was shifting uncomfortably by the door of the Departures room, looking around nervously. Charlie suddenly wondered if he’d ever left the country before.

“ _ Buna! _ ” he called, jogging up to him. “I’m Charlie. You’re Ioan?” 

The kid nodded, ducking his head. 

“ _ Vorbesti Engleza?”  _ Charlie tried. The kid glanced up from under his eyelashes and nodded.

“ _ Da _ ,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“Good, good,” Charlie nodded. “Have you ever been to England before?” 

Ioan shook his head. “I’ve lived in Romania my entire life,” he explained. His accent was thick, but his English was good. Charlie was impressed. “Went to a smaller, local school. My parents went to Durmstrang, but my grandparents could not afford the cost of books and uniforms for me.”

Charlie frowned. He would have been devastated if he hadn’t gotten to attend Hogwarts, but he knew all about money troubles. “I think you’ll like the change of scenery then. My family is very nice,” he grinned. “I hope you don’t mind children. And food. Mum makes lots of food.”

Ioan cracked a small smile, then his eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. “I think it is almost time for us to go,” he said, pointing to the clock. Charlie glanced down at his watch. 

“Oh, yeah, Portkey is in five minutes. Let’s go then.” He held the door open for Ioan, then stepped into the Departures room himself. 

They went through customs easily - the Wizarding equivalent wasn’t nearly as intensive as the muggle version, which Charlie had learned on a few trips overseas, when Portkeys weren’t nearly as safe or effective as airline travel or boats. In a few moments, Ioan, Charlie, and a handful of other wizards were huddled over an old, broken picture frame. Charlie braced himself, and all too soon they were whisked away to the Arrivals room in the Department of Transportation.

They landed firmly on the ground, and Ioan looked around interestedly. There were ministry officials and wizards in robes of all colors and styles filling the large room. The signs were all in English, which didn’t surprise Charlie but seemed to particularly interest Ioan.

“Come on, we need to go through customs real quick, and then my brother should be waiting for us on the other side. He works in this department, actually,” Charlie explained. He ushered Ioan towards the bored looking wizards behind the custom desks. It didn’t take much time to get through, and Charlie found his younger brother quickly on the other side.

He led Ioan through the crowd, weaving easily between the wizards and witches hurrying through the terminal. “Percy!” he called, waving his arm so the tall, lanky redhead could see them. Percy looked up from his book and adjusted his glasses, and tentative smile breaking out on his thin face as they reached him. “Ioan, this is my younger brother, Percy. Percy, this is Ioan.”

Percy smiled tightly. On anyone else, Charlie thought it would have looked awkward, but on Percy he knew it was sincere. “It’s nice to meet you, Ioan,” he said. “I hope you like British food. Mum’s making enough to feed an army.”

Ioan shook his hand politely. “It’s alright,” he said. “Zimbrean is always saying I am a growing boy and need to eat more.” Charlie chuckled, not noticing the way Ioan turned to stare at him. The kid had never seen Charlie smile before. 

 

The week leading up to Christmas was loud as ever. With the family’s recent influx of children in the past four years, bedrooms were stuffed to the bursting with family members, despite everyone owning their own homes. No one wanted to miss a moment of the holiday cheer.

George, Angelina, and their two tots were crammed into George’s room, with the small children sharing Fred’s old bed. Bill and Fleur, of course, had Bill’s room, somehow squeezing baby Dominique between them on their small bed while Victoire - who’d lately taken to answering only to Vic - slept on the cot that used to be used for Harry in their teen years. Ginny and Harry were in her room, presumably curled peacefully around James, who was the world’s most rambunctious eighteen month old. Teddy was meant to be sleeping on Hermione’s old cot, but he seemed to always end up squished against someone’s side by morning, and it was almost never his godfather’s.

Finally, Percy and his family, a charming muggleborn named Audrey and their twins, were shoved into Percy’s room. This would have been fine, since Percy’s room had always been decently neat, but Arthur and Lucy were constantly fighting, even though they were only two years old. Charlie kept stumbling upon Percy in the living room when he went downstairs for his morning jog.

Charlie’s mother, on the other hand, seemed to be in her element. She managed to make sure things went smoothly despite the sheer number of tiny children toddling under everyone’s feet while still whipping up feasts for every meal. Somehow, she’d roped Ioan into helping her, Harry, and Fleur cook every meal, regaling him with stories about Charlie when he was young that had him groaning into his hands.

Ioan, for that matter, came alive in the warmth of the Burrow. He’d been shy and awkward for the first day or so, but somehow the little ones had crawled onto his lap and his brothers had treated him like one of their own, and he’d slowly opened up. Now he was cracking jokes and spending a good amount time with each Weasley, from baby Dominique to Charlie’s parents, to Charlie himself. 

Charlie wondered if he’d be like this all the time, had circumstances been different for him.

Christmas Eve was hard for Charlie. He found himself out in the orchard with the others, watching Vic and Teddy race each other on their toy brooms while some of the adults played some semblance of quidditch, but he couldn’t bring himself to join in.

Watching Teddy play in the snow, his hair flashing brightly from color to color, all Charlie could think of was the boy’s mother. It wasn’t fair that she’d died so young, that she would never see her son like this. He was a happy, healthy six year old, had his father’s brains and his mother’s smile. She never lived to see that.

Watching George play with his children had hurt in the same way. Fred would never be a father. Charlie had never imagined that there would be a single stage in life that his younger brothers would embark on without each other. But this was just one of many. And despite the years between them, George still seemed so lost without his twin at his side.

Charlie hadn’t thought he’d ever know the pain of losing one of his brothers. He wished he still didn’t.

“Charlie,” Ioan greeted him, startling him from his thoughts. He sat down on the bleachers that Ginny’d had installed, watching the game with disinterest. “You aren’t playing. I thought you were a quidditch star.”

The man hummed in agreement, picking at a loose thread on his jumper. “I was,” he said. “Got offered a spot on the National Team right out of Hogwarts. But it that or the reserve, and I think I made the right choice.”

“Others tell me you been distant since the war. Why is that?” Ioan asked, waving at Vic as she turned her broom to look at them. The four year old squeaked and turned away, almost tumbling into the snow with the sharpness of her turn. Charlie called out a reassurance to her, instructing her from the bleachers until she steadied herself, then returned to the conversation at hand.

“I lost my younger brother and my best friend. It was… hard. I took it harder than most.” He turned to look at Ioan and sighed. “You can stop looking at me like that, you know. It’s weird to see a kid your age looking so wise.”

The kid grinned, his teeth bright against his dark skin. “I think we both need a friend, Charlie,” he said. “I was young when my parents died,” he said quietly. “I can barely remember them. My grandparents died just about a year ago, before I started working at the reserve. Within weeks of each other. That was worse. They were the only friends I’ve ever known.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Charlie said, wincing at the stereotypicality of the words. They never helped. He knew that much from experience.

“And I’m sorry for yours,” Ioan replied. “What do you say, Weasley? Friends? We can mope together and paint each other’s nails. Sleepovers. I’ve never had one, I hear they’re fun.”

Charlie laughed, a real belly laugh. The kind he hadn’t meant in a long time. “I think that sounds like a great idea, kid,” he said. Charlie stood, brushing off the seat of his pants, and holding out a hand to help Ioan up.

“Tell me, have you ever been to a quidditch game? No? Well, okay, so I don’t like to brag, but Hermione is friends with Viktor Krum, and I’m pretty sure he can get us tickets to the Romania-Bulgaria match.”

It might take time, and it might take some healing, but Charlie Weasley had what he’d been missing. He had a friend.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are my life blood x
> 
> if you want to come scream at me about anything ever, my tumblr is [moonys-crappy-doodles](https://moonys-crappy-doodles.tumblr.com/)


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